


Always

by finefeatheredfriend



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24307768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finefeatheredfriend/pseuds/finefeatheredfriend
Summary: After Arthur gets lost in a swamp for two weeks, Charles and the other gang members must get him clean and help him recuperate from his ordeal. From a Tumblr prompt requesting that a character bathe a sick/injured/filthy Arthur.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 4
Kudos: 108





	Always

"EASY, EASY, EEEEEAASY, BOAH!" There was a note of panic in the rider's voice as his fingers gathered up the reins of the terrified horse. It was thundering in erratic circles, its nostrils wide, the pink insides showing as it blew out hard breaths, pawing the air as it rose up on its hindlegs and then slammed back down hard enough to rattle the rider's teeth and bury its forefeet in mud to its knees. That panicked it even further and it let out a screeching whinny just as a small alligator hissed and snapped its jaws nearby. "Settle down, boah, you're gonna, OH SHIT!" The horse had darted forward at the sound of the gator, tucking its tail and ass under itself like a dog as it zoomed forward and then screeched to an abrupt halt, tossing its rider over its head and into the muck.

Arthur Morgan spluttered, scrambling in the mud and trying in vain to get his footing. The ground kept sliding out from beneath his feet, mud and water squelching into his worn boots as he struggled, up to his shoulders in stinking muck. There was an oddly chemical tinge to the scent of the wet dog smelling filth and he realized that he was wallowing in an oil slick within the swamp he had ridden into trying to avoid a bounty hunter. He gasped a breath, barely keeping his head above the level of the mud and oil, a metallic tang in his mouth. He drug himself toward the nearest tree he could see, figuring that if there was a cypress growing there, there must be solid ground beneath it.

Hand over hand, step after laborious step through awful, custard consistency mess, Arthur pulled himself toward the tree. He was nearly halfway from where he had started when the bottoms of his boots contacted something hard and rough. A log?

It moved.

Not a log.

Arthur's heart shifted into high gear and his head felt stuffed with cotton as he panicked. The form beneath him moved, surfacing with an evil hiss. It was a massive gator, it's yellow green eye emotionless as it regarded him through a slitted pupil. Arthur was panting, his eyes gone wide with terror.

"Uh, easy, easy, fella," he pleaded, trying and failing to grab his pistol, which had fallen from his holster at some point. He was unarmed, covered in oil and mud and standing right next to a ten foot alligator. It opened its mouth, setting on display a row of yellow-white peg teeth and a wide pink tongue. It hissed again and flopped its tail to the side, toward Arthur, a gesture of apparent irritation. Well, he could hardly blame it, he had stepped on its back after all. It didn't make another move and Arthur slowly, gradually pulled himself away from it, gingerly pushing off its scaly side. It twitched and threw its head to the side threateningly, but didn't bother with turning around to grab him, much to his relief. It rumbled a low growl and slithered gracefully the other direction, disappearing back into the muck a few feet away.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Arthur waited for his breathing and heart rate to return to normal before scuttling toward the cypress tree. He surveyed his surroundings and realized that his horse was long gone, either pulled down into the swamp by a gator, or fled from the area entirely. His heart sank. It had been a fine horse, though he had only stolen it a week ago. Hopefully it had escaped. He felt himself for injuries, irritated that his gun was missing, but pleased to find that his satchel escaped with its contents unscathed. He'd have to thank Mr. Pearson for his fine leather work.

Scanning his surroundings, he realized he was utterly lost. There was no sign of civilization in any direction and in most directions there were gators, snakes and other slick, wily creatures that would no doubt cause him trouble.

"Shit," he mumbled to himself, fumbling to pull a cigarette from his bag. It wilted from the mud on his fingers and he yelped when he lit a match, shrieking when some of the fumes of the oil had been set alight by the small flame. He tossed the match and the whole area became a conflagration, forcing him to dive into a murky green puddle nearby. Arthur dropped in and then swam back up to the surface, his arm stinging. When he clambered back up onto the island where the cypress tree grew, he saw that the flame was licking along the surface of the swamp, eating away oil fumes while never lighting the cooler, thicker tar. He heaved a sigh of relief, but was irritated to find that the sleeve of his shirt was destroyed, and his arm was covered in a red, blistered burn.

Arthur stared up at the cloudy sky, unable to determine where the sun was through grey-green clouds that cast a sickly pallor over the landscape. He tried to use his compass, but he must have landed on it - the glass was broken and the needle was missing. The outlaw sat on a fallen log near the living cypress, putting his face in his hands and feeling sorry for himself for a long moment. Collecting his thoughts, he chose a direction and headed out, hoping he wasn't traveling deeper into the swamp.

TWO WEEKS LATER

"Foolish man, doesn't even think about taking someone with him when he goes out," came Ms. Grimshaw's voice.

"He's capable, just had some bad luck looks like," Charles' baritone argued. "Here, hand me those aloe leaves." He took the blue-green blades of cacti from Ms. Grimshaw and smashed them in a wooden bowl, forming a paste. "We'll have to get this mess off him. He's covered in something other than just mud." He swept a finger through the muck on Arthur's face, smelling it. "Hmm. Oil. We'll need some lye soap, and we might as well carry him to the water's edge."

"He's already shivering, Mr. Smith. He needs a hot bath." Charles nodded in agreement.

"I'll start heatin' up some water," Abigail said from just outside Arthur's tent. "Is he gonna be alright?"

"It's Arthur. Of course he'll be fine," John said flippantly and Abigail gave him a scathing look.

"Couldn't even be bothered to go out and find him," she snapped at John.

"He goes out on his own all the time, Abigail, how could I have known he was hurt?" Before the situation could escalate, Charles interrupted.

"He's right, Abigail. Besides, Arthur doesn't need us bickering while he's sick," Charles pointed out, giving them both a stern look.

"We could use some more blankets, Mr. Marston, could you please bring a few of yours?" Ms. Grimshaw asked.

"You're gonna clean him up first, though, right?" John objected.

"Not as though the amount of grease on them would change, Mr. Marston, just bring me the blankets," Ms. Grimshaw ordered, giving him a hard shove toward his tent.

Arthur pried his eyes open with a low moan, shivering with cold. His cheeks were gaunt and drawn with hunger and his blue-green eyes, usually sparkling with life, were dull and exhausted.

"The hell's goin' on?" he asked in a rough tone.

"Just you lie back and relax, Mr. Morgan, we'll take care of you," Ms. Grimshaw fussed as he tried to sit up. He scowled and peered down at himself, noting his state of disarray and filth.

"I can take care'a myself, Ms. Grimshaw," he slurred, but he nearly fell off the cot as he insistently tried to sit up again. Charles, sensing that Arthur didn't want to be scrubbed down by Ms. Grimshaw as he had been when he was a teenager, intervened.

"I'll take over," he offered. "Bring that big tub from Pearson's tent and I'll help him get clean." Ms. Grimshaw sniffed, but vanished out of the tent. Arthur looked up gratefully.

"Thank you, Charles," he murmured.

"Of course. You had me worried when I found you there in the muck. What were you thinking going out in the middle of the swamp?"

"Weren't exactly by plan," Arthur pointed out as Charles unbuttoned the remnants of his tattered shirt and pulled it from him. Arthur winced as the cotton passed over his burns and Charles was careful not to bump it. He tossed the ragged shirt and reached for Arthur's suspenders and the buttons of his pants next. Arthur put a hand on his to still him. "I can, uh, I can manage that m'self," he insisted, weak fingers plucking at the buckles and buttons until they finally released their hold and he could wriggle out of the jeans with help from Charles. Ms. Grimshaw brought the tub, politely looking away when Charles helped Arthur out of his union suit. Abigail offered him no such dignity, looking him over with a smirk as she brought in hot water.

"Abigail," Arthur whined, blushing and cupping his most delicate parts in a big hand to hide it from view.

"What? Ain't nothin' I haven't seen before. You men all think you're special and want us women to bring you water, and bring you soap and do all the work for you like a pack mule, but the first time your pecker's out you think we're gonna faint at the sight of it. Hush up and get clean, you foolish man," she admonished him, but she had a friendly smile on her face when she tossed him a clean linen towel. Charles caught it instead, sparing it from the mud still caked on Arthur's hand.

Arthur, for his part, was miserable. Cold, muddy, greasy, smelly and hungry, he could not think of a time when he had felt worse. Having them all fussing over him was humiliating, especially now that he was naked, but he had to admit that Charles' steady arm helping him into the tub of steaming water was nice. He sighed, leaning back against the edge of the tub, and though it was too small to stretch out in and he nearly had his knees under his chin, the warmth of the water was soothing. Charles produced a bar of soap from somewhere and ran it over his shoulders and neck. Arthur squawked, his nose wrinkling.

"I can bathe myself, Charles," he complained.

"It's fine, Arthur," was all that was said in return. Skilled, strong hands moved over his body, scraping away oil and packed mud, loosening clods of dirt from his brown blonde hair. Charles slung most of the mess out of the tub to keep the water clean, but even with his efforts the water was soon an unappealing shade of brown. The water was dumped and replaced, Arthur shivering miserably as he waited for the water to be poured back into the tub before climbing back in. "Pearson's making you some fish stew. Your favorite."

"'Favorite' is a strong word," Arthur commented. "I ain't been bent double in the woods after eating his fish stew, so if that makes it a favorite, then I guess so." Charles snorted, but said nothing more. His hands were gentle as they soothed Arthur's wounds, rubbing aloe over the burn and scrubbing away all the remaining dirt. Arthur's cheeks burned red as Charles reached beneath him and made sure that _all_ of him was clean, but the bigger man didn't make it uncomfortable, simply did what needed to be done with hands that were softer than Arthur had been expecting. He turned his head to address Charles as he stood in the tub and was surprised to find himself nose-to-nose with the other man, his eyes staring into soft brown ones, and then down at a strong hand holding up the towel for him. For an instant, they breathed the same air and then Charles took a step back, handing him the towel and then giving him his space.

"Thank you, Charles," Arthur said softly. He tried to step out of the tub, but after nearly two weeks of eating nothing but bugs and lizards he could find in the swamp, he was weak. He tumbled and Charles caught him with a strong arm, settling him onto the cot, which had been covered with new blankets.

"Anytime," Charles breathed, his voice hitching slightly. They made intense eye contact for a moment, and for just a moment, Arthur thought that Charles was about to tip his head, about to close the gap between them and touch his lips to Arthur's own. "I thought you were dead when I found you," he admitted softly.

"Ain't dead yet," Arthur responded, staying partially upright on the cot to maintain their closeness, feeling something he couldn't quite explain, an urge he couldn't quite understand flooding him. Charles turned away abruptly.

"I'll bring you that stew," he told him, moving away before Arthur could stop him with a hand.

"Charles," he called. The big man stopped, turning his head slightly to the side, waiting. Arthur's gratitude, the simple thanks just didn't seem enough, but he didn't know how else to express himself. Maybe if he had a week and his journal to write an explanation in... "Thank you. For findin' me. For bringin' me home."

"Anytime," Charles repeated, with more emphasis this time. With that, he left, returning a few minutes later with the promised stew. Arthur, his hands still shaking with weariness, tolerated Charles feeding him, though his pride hurt from having to allow the action. When he had finished the bowl, Charles stood, helping Arthur into a clean union suit and tucking him beneath a pile of blankets so he could sleep and recuperate from his ordeal. As the younger man was about to leave, Arthur called after him again, his heart aching despite his injured pride and his embarrassment. He lightly patted the space next to him on the cot.

"Charles. Will you stay with me?" Charles' expression lightened, something approaching a smile crossing his handsome features, lighting his soft brown eyes, the color of a vernal pool in a quiet forest, deep and beautiful. He sat down on the cot next to Arthur and stroked his cheek with a wide hand, his warm brown skin in stark contrast to Arthur's pallid, nearly blue-white complexion. Arthur involuntarily leaned into the touch, his eyes half-closing with contentment.

"Always," Charles promised.


End file.
